How It Feel to be Old “Lost in memories,” was the way I responded when asked how I spend my days. The question came from a sixth grader named… what was his name? The energy was palpable when those kids came bursting in through the double doors with their pencils and notebooks in hand. The child assigned to interview me was beautiful. I wanted to touch his curly hair and brush it away from his light grey eyes. His skin was olive and flawless. He was reading the questions from a prepared list, but he seemed present and thoughtful. He was seated on a folding chair facing me. I watched as he carefully copied down my answers. His note pad was on his lap and he struggled to keep his writing legible. I watched him erase something he wanted to correct. He looked back at his list of questions. “Is there anything when you think back that you would do different in your life?” The question was inarticulate, but I just answered with a simple “Yes.” He wrote, yes in his note book but it was his last question and he just looked back directly into my eyes. He was waiting to hear what I would do differently. I was unprepared to answer that question in a way that was appropriate for a sixth grader. I was willing to talk about my lovely wife, grown children and my career. I could talk about my childhood memories before TV was invented. But this question stopped me and we just sat for a while and looked at one another. Then I said, “How old are you?” He said he was twelve. I told him that he had beautiful eyes and he laughed. He was going to wait for a more complete answer to his question. So, after another pause, I said, “Patience, I wish I would have been more patient. I wish I had taken the time to stop and listen to people and had waited for them to tell me important things. If there were classes in patience, I would have signed up. I wish I had worked on an advanced degree in patience. I could be a Doctor of Patience.” So that was it. He wrote “patience” on his paper and he spelled it correctly. He closed his book, stood up and shook my hand. When he walked away, I was thinking about his eyes and how smooth his hand was next to my hand, so wrinkled and spotted. 02/05/2017 © Don Lehman |